


Favourite Son

by linguamortua



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Force Visions, Fucked Up, Grooming, Hallucinations, M/M, Masturbation, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Solo has a natural gift for the Force. He also has a secret mentor, guiding him towards forbidden knowledge. In return, all he has to give his mentor is his complete obedience and submission in all things - forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favourite Son

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about Snoke watching over and corrupting Ben Solo. It is not a nice story. If you are likely to be upset by a story about a teenager being groomed and manipulated, this is your cue to use the back button.
> 
> Thanks to [Sath](http://sathinfection.tumblr.com) for the beta!

**i.**

the first time he left he was very little and the ship was loud and he was scared — they lifted off and mama was tiny as they took off and he started to cry but —

two big hands held his own on the controls and a voice said _there you go kid there you go you got it_

there were lots more times after that but he never forgot the first

even though it wasn’t for very long

 

**ii.**

Uncle Luke had a sad smile and a gentle voice. It seemed important to Mama that Ben like him. He had to stop playing with his toys to talk to Uncle Luke, and he didn’t like that. His dad said something about _fool notions_ and Mama told him to be quiet. He went away and slammed the door. Uncle Luke put a warm, dry hand on Ben’s forehead and closed his eyes, and it felt real weird, and tense in the room, like Mama was waiting for something.

Nobody explained it but later Mama asked if he’d like to live with Uncle Luke one day and Ben shrugged and said _I guess_. Mama smiled, but it looked sad like Uncle Luke’s smile, and when Ben asked her what was wrong she said _one day you’ll grow up and leave_.

 

**iii.**

The other kids didn’t like Ben, and Ben couldn’t care less. He was bigger than them, so they had to get him alone and jump him by twos or threes if they wanted to fight. They did, too, ganging up and planning little ambushes. Sometimes they lost anyway. His mother would wash the blood off his face and give him lectures about _being his best self_ , her mouth folded in a thin line. It was always his fault, somehow. He was expected to be better than everyone else, just like his stupid mother. When his father was around he’d mostly laugh and ruffle Ben’s hair, except he was hardly ever around so mostly Ben had to sit there and get a lecture.

He didn’t care. He _didn’t_. He didn’t care because now he knew he was special. Ben had the Force, and the other kids didn’t. It was forbidden to practise without a teacher, but the rules were for children and Ben would be thirteen next year and almost grown. Perhaps some children needed guidance, but there was a little place in Ben’s mind that he could go when the need to use the Force took him. A mental state where it felt as though he could do anything. He had a natural gift; he only had to open himself to the Force and it bent to his will, folding and spiralling into shapes that he had never seen before but knew to be correct.

He did it in secret, or at night, with the lights off, lying very still under the covers and hardly breathing just in case his mother heard him.

One day soon he’d get off this stupid planet, and he’d do something really amazing, really great. He could feel the pull of destiny; he knew he was meant for greater things. Nothing else could explain how easy it was to wield the Force. Maybe dumb babies needed training, but all Ben needed to do was open himself up and follow the whispers. Obey the will of the Force.

 

**iv.**

Ben rested his cheek against the shuttle viewport and watched home recede. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to leave - he did - but when the moment had come, he’d realised what it would mean to be half a system away. His mother had stood in the spaceport waiting room with her diplomatic face on. Trying hard to stifle outward emotion. Ben was absurdly resentful of her for that. Couldn’t she just have showed her affection, one time?

If he closed his eyes and reached out, he could feel her; a warm, golden blur getting fainter and fainter. At times of high emotion they reverberated in an off-key harmony that they could never quite resolve. He reached up to the neck of his shirt and touched the little charm she’d given him for his birthday that year. An abstract, curling shape with a groove that fit his thumb. She called it a _focus charm_ , said that holding it would help him find his Force centre. He did not tell her that he had already found it, that he was already far beyond a beginner’s tricks and baubles. Still, he couldn’t make himself take the amulet off.

His mother’s Force-feel slipped away as they shucked off the planet’s gravitational pull. He couldn’t feel Han. He couldn’t have felt Han even if he’d been there; the man was no more Force-sensitive than a rock. Of course Han wasn’t around for this. He’d not been back home for over a year. Another milestone missed. Ben wanted to be angry, tried to generate a little righteous rage at his absent father, but mostly he just wanted to cry.

‘He’s a busy man,’ his mother had said to him that morning, Ben’s questions about Han sounding plaintive to his own ears, ‘with his own concerns.’ Her face was smooth and convincing to anyone but Ben, who’d grown up with the sound of their hissed, stifled nighttime arguments, their cold politeness over breakfast. Hypocritical of her, to be so obsessed with Ben’s good behaviour while lying to him with a straight face. Conscience pricked at him; _at least she was there_ , it said to him, _at least she was around_.

Ben pulled his hood up over his head and curled his gangly legs up onto his seat. Nobody to tell him to keep his shoes off the furniture. Nobody to tell him off. Nobody at all. Awash with sudden homesickness, he closed his eyes and opened his Force sense. Out there, in the grim blackness of space, his Force-ghost whispered to him.

 

**v.**

There was so much blood. So much. He hadn’t realised it would spray so much, spurting up the walls and across the floor and over him. His robes were tacky and reeking with it, hanging heavy and wet against his skin. Now that it was over he was very tired, although at first the quiet whispers in his mind - of his master, his _true_ master - had imparted to him a sort of superhuman strength, the likes of which he had never experienced before. He was strong anyway, bigger than all the others now at the fullness of his growth, and muscular. The crumpled bodies of his fellow padawans seemed even smaller than usual, huddled against each other on the floor. Few were intact. There were - there were limbs. Pieces. Ben retched a little.

 _My dear boy,_ said his master, then, more gentle and intimate than he had ever been. _My dear, beautiful boy. You have done well._ Ben turned away from the dining hall and drifted through the corridors in a cloud of death and stink. The training saber hung from his hand still, modified under his master’s instructions to remove the safety protocols. The hilt was slick with blood. His master whispered to him, repetitious and soft until the words became less important than the deep and touching care in his voice. Feet dragging and shoulders hunched, Ben haunted the padawan compound.

Luke was away. He would be away for some time. For now, there was nobody within a day’s flight; nobody at all. He had the whole place to himself. The compound was not large, anyway. He circled it like an anxious animal around its cage, as the sun slid down in the sky little by little. Hunger eventually dragged him back to the dining hall, with its iron stink of blood and the aura of fear still heavy in the air. He skirted the edge of the room and slunk into the kitchen, his eyes averted. The cupboards were full enough of food. With dirty, shaking hands, Ben pulled cans and packages out onto the floor, tearing some open and eating right there, crouched half-behind the centre isle. Everything tasted like blood and rot. He had to choke down the crackers and tinned meat and chocolate.

The taste lingering with him, Ben made his way to the shuttle hangar. Two small craft lay within, pressed close to the walls. A space for a third ship, a little larger, gaped between them. Luke’s ship. All craft were supposed to be locked and inaccessible to students, but Ben’s education had been wide and varied. Even in his agitated state, it did not take long for him to gain access to the better of the two shuttles. He opened the hangar doors, and then pulled himself up into the narrow cockpit.

As his hands touched the controls, his master’s voice whispered to him once again.

‘Come to me now, my boy,’ he said, and a set of coordinates floated into Ben’s consciousness. He plugged them into the nav computer, and the shuttle hummed to life.

 

**vi.**

‘Kylo,’ said Ben’s master, his voice - his real voice - echoing in the chamber. The words had a portentous feel to them. Ben shivered. Through a haze of incensed smoke, he glimpsed his mentor for the first time. Tall, skeletal, grey-skinned, looking down upon him with an intensity that Luke had never had, a fondness that his father had never shown him. At once loving and terrifying.

‘You will be like a son to me, Kylo,’ the Supreme Leader said as Kylo knelt before him. The name still sounded strange out loud, a voicing of a secret, talismanic word that Kylo had kept hidden for a long time.

‘I did it,’ Kylo said stupidly, holding out his hands to show his master the dried blood under his fingernails. He fumbled at his belt for the hilt of the practice lightsaber, all crusted with blood and rubbed smooth with age. He held that out too. He wanted very badly to present his master with a tangible sign of his success. It did not feel like the becoming he had pictured. He still smelled faintly of blood and he was slumped with fatigue. In his earlier imaginings, he had thought that this first meeting would be more glorious, somehow. That he would stalk into the hall, standing tall, to be greeted by his master. Perhaps witnessed by — by whom, he wasn’t sure, but he had always imagined that there would be some kind of audience. As it was, he had only a battered old lightsaber with a clumsily-modified crystal, and a padawan’s drab brown clothing, and the raw cut edge of his braid where he’d hacked it off.

‘Your obedience — I saw it. I felt it.’ The Supreme Leader nodded once, the warm sensation of his approval radiating out to Kylo. Kylo bathed in it, washed clean by the simple truth that his master’s love for him was not altered by his own imperfections. His lot was only to obey. The expectations were clear, and that was revelatory.

They sat for a while in quiet communion, Kylo kneeling on the floor and his master gently sorting through his turbulent mind, exploring and cataloguing. No further words needed to be spoken, now; all of Kylo’s thoughts and memories were open. Eventually, when Kylo was sagging, half-asleep, the Supreme Leader reached out with his mind and coiled inside Kylo and brought him gently to his feet. A quiet attendant came to support his exhausted frame and guide him out of the chamber, along twisted corridors to a neat room.

So began his apprenticeship in earnest. His days were long and time was uncertain. The Supreme Leader’s compound was largely underground, to better protect its denizens from the scorching rays of the tiny planet’s twin suns. Kylo had no clock. The day’s activities moved with stately regularity, regardless of his personal schedule. He adapted. It was almost always deathly quiet. A motley array of attendants serviced the compound with silent alacrity; they had had their tongues removed and their minds crushed into blank subservience.

He would wake to find a plain breakfast beside his bed. He would eat, wash and dress in a simple black robe, much like that of a padawan. No shoes were available to him. The floors were very cold. Periodically clean clothing would appear. Half of the day was taken up with sparring and physical activities with a scant handful of other young men and women. Then, hungry and sore and tired, Kylo would be summoned to the Supreme Leader. They would sit, Kylo on the floor and his master high above him on his marble throne, and practice meditations and Force exercises for a short time. After his dismissal, Kylo would return to his monklike room and meditate further, lightheaded with hunger, until an attendant brought food. Finally, he would sleep.

The cycle repeated itself with an enveloping kind of regularity. Kylo did not understand the precise mechanisms by which food appeared without waking him. Nor could he fathom how he was awoken at the same time each day, with no visible or audible cue. It was not his place to judge. He persevered with his training, always cold, always hungry, always privately curious.

Once, he dared to raise his voice at the end of a session, and his master gently but firmly silenced him. The Supreme Leader was almost always gentle with him. There were other apprentices, now and then, who earned the privilege of personal attention from their master. Most of them died. They were found wanting and the Supreme Leader did not coddle his pupils.

‘Attend me,’ said the master now, sending out a sharp, electric little tendril that wracked Kylo with a sudden spasm.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kylo said immediately, bringing his attention back to the work at hand. It was best to make a quick apology. Contrition pleased the Supreme Leader.

‘I know,’ purred his master, ‘I know. You are very good, Kylo. The best of all my children.’

 

**vii.**

The day was finally upon him. Long months of training and personal supervision by his master had moulded Kylo. He truly was Kylo, now. He dreamed as Kylo. _Ben_ had been consigned to the past; a weak, petulant boy, desperate for attention and too concerned with the opinions of others. With no driving ambition whatsoever. He had been remade into Kylo.

The mask was —

Kylo slipped it on and caught the scent of newly-machined metal. He inhaled deeply, his breath rushing in his ears.

— perfect.

His shoulders uncurled and his back straightened. He lifted his chin. When he moved, the strict pressure of his belt kept his posture erect, and his heavy robes swept around his ankles. He was girded and masked fit for war.

 _Come to me now, Kylo Ren,_ the Supreme Leader said softly into his mind. Kylo shivered to hear his new title. A second name. A second name gifted to him by his master.

He knelt, made graceful by practice. His belt pressed into his diaphragm and made his breathing shallow.

‘Kylo Ren, are you loyal to me in all things?’

‘I am, master,’ said Kylo, imbuing his response with Force-truth, projecting out his sincerity in the strongest possible way. Above him, his master frowned, and the air in the room became heavier, somehow.

‘I cannot send you out to do my bidding unless I know.’

‘I am loyal. I am loyal to you in everything, above everything.’ Kylo’s skin felt tight. A desperate, crawling guilt unfolded in the pit of his stomach. Favoured as he was, wrong answers would be met with pain. His master was a great believer in the pedagogical power of physical pain. His skin started to burn; he sweated, holding his position.

‘There is one thing.’

The faces of Kylo’s parents swam before his eyes, and his home world, and Uncle Luke. They dissipated quickly. Had his master thought him still loyal to his home, he would have killed him long before gifting him with his mask. He shuffled through memories, hunting for his particular failure.

‘I don’t know,’ he said finally, on fire, shaking his head. His mask rubbed slick against his sweaty face. Panic welled up. Students had failed before and paid the price.

‘Then I will show you.’ His master reached into his mind as he had done so many times. It was rougher this time. He scooped out the thought image and brought it to the top of Kylo’s mind where he could view it. View the dark of his little room, the faint phosphorus light at the top left of the far wall. Nighttime; the blanket over him. Kylo sucked in a short breath when he realised what was happening. What had happened.

He had been masturbating, to an idle, hazy series of images constructed during his teenage years. Flashes of skin, quick fumbles in hidden places. In the thought image, his hand moved with brisk efficiency on his cock, the blanket jumping. Kylo remembered it. He rarely touched himself these days, so each isolated incident was easy to recall. Behind his mask, his face flamed.

As his former self stuttered and gasped to orgasm, Kylo was assaulted with a sense of claustrophobia. It became harder to breathe, hotter inside his mask. At first he thought it was shame, but it intensified, little by little, until he was sucking in noisy breaths.

It was a punishment, then.

‘Kylo Ren, I will ask again. Are you loyal to me in all things?’

‘Almost all,’ Kylo whispered in mortification.

‘How have you failed me?’

‘I— I misdirected my sexual energy,’ Kylo confessed.

‘Yes.’ The Supreme Leader leaned forward, his robes rustling. His voice had a thick eagerness to it when he spoke next. ‘Correct yourself, Kylo. Let me see your loyalty.’ A long pause stretched out between them. The Supreme Leader thrummed with anticipation.

 _He can’t possibly expect—_ thought Kylo.

 _But I do._ The answer echoed in Kylo’s brain.

Still stifled behind his mask, Kylo pawed his robes and undergarments aside with shaking hands. The cold floor scraped his knees. His cock lay limp against his thigh. Something settled around his throat, light but insistent. He panted, willing himself hard. Willing his body to obey. His sweaty palm was hot and damp on his cock and he was dizzy, unable to breathe deeply enough. His cock twitched in his hand.

Focus. He had to focus.

‘I will help you,’ said the Supreme Leader. With exquisite skill he crafted a vision and inserted it into Kylo’s mind. Kylo, naked, oiled, erect, coming to the marble throne on his knees. His master sitting with legs spread, beckoning him forward. Gesturing his head down. In the vision, Kylo folded himself down very small in supplication and nosed aside his master’s robe to take his narrow, grey member into his mouth.

Kylo moaned, his cock thickening in his hand. He squeezed at it. The vision was very rich, very vivid, more colourful and almost more real than life. His mouth was thick with the salty, musky taste of cock. A phantom taste. He huffed in air, still collared by his master’s Force leash. Held upright by the wide cinch of his belt, he managed to start stroking himself.

‘My mortal vessel is frail,’ said the Supreme Leader, watching Kylo frantically tug at his cock on the floor. ‘Were it more robust, I would take you in all possible ways. But instead…’ The Force vision wavered and reformed into something quite different.

On his back, this time. Kylo lay on an altar, knees pulled up to his chest and legs spread wide. Mute attendants held his thighs, posed him. His hands were bound above his head, arching his chest into a long line. Wet fingers pried him open, pulled him apart to expose him. In ceremonial attire, his master approached. With a delicate touch, he was anointed with oil, and his master pressed inside him in one long thrust.

It was not real. It was not real, and yet Kylo could distinctly feel it. The tight, intrusive sensation of a long, narrow cock sliding into him, pressing against his walls. He made a raw sound through his nose. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat and soaked down into his robe.

Knees and back and belly, alone with his master, or displayed in front of a throng of watchers. Eyes covered or mouth bound, tied or pinned or held. Kylo’s master penetrated him over and over, in a flickering passage of images more profane and complex than any fantasy Kylo himself could generate. The Supreme Leader allowed him only enough breath to stay conscious. Made him work for every gasp. His arm was tense and his fingers cramping; his cock hurt with friction and with pressure.

Finally, the Supreme Leader spoke to him again.

‘These are your desires, Kylo Ren,’ he said. ‘This is how you will pleasure yourself, now. This part of you is mine, as all parts of you are mine. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, master,’ Kylo choked out. ‘Please. I understand.’

An invisible hand stroked down his back, between his cheeks and lower. Pressure, curling up into his ass like fingers, and a gentle, stroking touch inside him. With a broken sob, Kylo came in spurts over his hand and onto the floor. The tight collar around his neck disappeared and he breathed again, drinking down the cold, stale air. His skin no longer burned.

What remained was the dull throb of pleasure and cooling sweat itching at him. He panted into the floor, coming back to himself. It had been an intimacy beyond anything that he could have dreamed to be allowed. An intense experience; strange, off, somehow. He was wrung out from it. He felt sick. He hurriedly covered himself again, heedless of the mess. Kneeling at his master’s feet rarely felt degrading, but to do so exposed was different. Kylo fretted silently, tucking his robes under his knees and trying to breathe away the rush of blood in his ears.

‘Kylo Ren, I am pleased with you.’ His master’s voice was warm. Kylo had done well. ‘I have had many apprentices, some like children to me, but you— you are the best of them all. You are my disciple and my heir.’ He smiled, and the wave of approval that he emitted made Kylo sag with relief.

‘Thank you,’ Kylo said in a raw scrape of a voice.

The word ‘father’ lingered unspoken between them.


End file.
